


shiny and new (and dressed up like you)

by Grigori_girl



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/F, Gen, Jack/FemShep if you squint, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigori_girl/pseuds/Grigori_girl
Summary: “You’re up in your fuckin’ sleep if you think I’m wearing Cerberus.”“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jack tilts her head, eyes roving Shepard head to toe. She opens her mouth to respond, but Shepard holds up a hand. “Nevermind, don’t answer that.” She sighs, crosses her arms. “They're not Cerberus, they’re mine.”
Relationships: Jack | Subject Zero/Female Shepard
Kudos: 32





	shiny and new (and dressed up like you)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been ten years and I’m still bitter about Jack’s tiddy straps.

“What the fuck is this?” 

“Clothes.” 

Jack pokes the stack of fabric, slipping her finger under the soft material of the shirt on top and lifting it enough to peek at the pants underneath. They were indeed clothes. She pushes them off the table and there’s the distinct sound of a belt hitting the ground. She gives Shepard a glare that has peeled the skin off lesser people, but she merely raises a brow, unimpressed.

“You’re up in your fuckin’ sleep if you think I’m wearing Cerberus.” 

Shepard bends over, scooping up the clothes, giving Jack a generous view of the softly glowing crack in her cybernetics that runs, presumably, the length of the part in her hair; the space in which they put her head back together. Was her skull crushed? Did they have to start from scratch or was it just a sign of new skin? Shepard straightens, brushes nigh nonexistent dirt off the clothes, unaware or simply uncaring of Jack’s ogling. She tosses them onto Jack’s cot, datapads clattering as the stack sends them scattering. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Jack tilts her head, eyes roving Shepard head to toe. She opens her mouth to respond, but Shepard holds up a hand. “Nevermind, don’t answer that.” She sighs, crosses her arms. “They're not Cerberus, they’re mine.” 

Something unnamed flashes in Jack’s eyes, something close to disbelief, distrust. “Why.” 

“You’ve been wearing that shitty jumpsuit since we got you out of Purgatory,” Shepard says, gesturing at the stained and worn piece of clothing, the arms tied around her waist, the fabric faded. “I figured you might want another option besides prison-wear chic.” She tries for a smile, but it falls a little flat, even to Jack, a woman notoriously unfamiliar with exposure to humor or kindness. Shepard shifts on her feet a little, a stray strand of red hair beginning to free itself and curl behind her ear. “If I could wear anything other than this shit,” she gestures at her crisp uniform, emblazoned with Cerberus’ insignia, “without half the crew crawling up my ass about it, I would.” 

“Trying to live vicariously, Commander?” Jack quips, her stomach twisting uncomfortably at the fact that Shepard thought about her as more than another weapon in her ever-growing arsenal. 

Still, she smiles—a real smile, this time. 

“Something like that. Besides, the titty straps  _ can’t _ be comfortable.” 

“I’ve dealt with worse.” Says the woman tortured innumerable times since she was a child. 

“Haven’t we all?” Replies the woman who died.

Shepard’s omnitool beeps, drawing the commander’s gaze away long enough for Jack to remember how to breathe, for her to realize she hadn’t been. Whatever it is, it makes something about Shepard...change. Like she deflates, the lines of her body growing weary, the cracks in her cybernetics glowing like hellfire, like they could burn away the bags that gather beneath her eyes. Her omnitool disappears with a flick of her wrist, but her attention isn’t only for Jack anymore. She suddenly misses the weight of her stare, the feeling of knowing that, even if it was just for a moment, she’s the only thing commanding the illustrious Quiss Shepard’s attention. She banishes the thought as the commander’s gaze finds her again, and she can’t tell if the red in her eyes are from the running lights of the cargo hold or near-rejection of her Cerberus-made retinas. 

“Well, I have a few other things to take care of before lights out.” She gestures at the clothes, half-unfolded from their manhandling. “They might be a little big,” Shepard was only an inch or two taller than Jack herself, but she was decidedly more broad; the woman was a solid figure of muscle and built like a brick shithouse; Jack’s strength lies in her biotics, and what muscle she has, has stubbornly remained lean and close to her bones. “But I figure it’s better than nothing, at least until we stop somewhere you can get your own.” 

Jack allows herself a quick glance at the offering, but her eyes are drawn to Shepard movement, watching as she steps back toward the stairs, rolling her shoulder in the way that she does when it acts up; the damn cheerleader apparently wasn’t as perfect as she seemed, and Shepard had to pay the price, even if she claims it was a problem she had before being spaced. 

“Oh.” She’s got a booted foot on the bottom step, ready to depart, when she stops in her tracks and leans back enough to see Jack around the tangle of pipes and support beams. “I had Gardener set aside some dinner up in the mess. Everyone should be cleared out by now, but you can give it another fifteen, to be sure.” 

Again, that gross, fluttery feeling swarms Jack’s gut, the tips of her ears warming beneath the cuff of her aids. Her initial request to keep Shepard’s crew far away was as much for their safety as for her own comfort, and Shepard had gathered as much. Jack shifts on her perch atop some crates, taps her fingers on her knee, and lets Shepard get to the first landing before calling after her. 

“Shepard?” Her footsteps stop diligently, her silence patient while the words do their best to strangle Jack from the inside out. “Thanks.” The commander waits another long second, allows for more, but leaves when nothing comes. Jack could swear she’d said “of course” before she’d left, but she just as quickly convinces herself otherwise. 

Still, she waits a minute, listens to the sound of Shepard’s steady steps fade and the distant humming whir of the elevator as it whisks her safely away, before Jack hops down from the crates and snatches up the commander’s offering. The shirt is soft, plain black. When Jack lets it fall open, the white and red of the N7 insignia greets her. Something about it throws her off—somehow she always forgets that Shepard is the  _ best _ of the best; she isn’t just a figurehead overhyped by a crew blinded by idolatry, she is notably, certifiably, incredible. Jack rubs the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, much of the well-worn softness lost to the many calluses that spatter her fingers, her palms. 

Casting a cursory glance around her hold, as if anyone other than Shepard herself would risk coming into her domain, and begins shedding her clothes. With the straps gone, she feels a certain weight lift from her shoulders, and she gives a savage twist at the waist, cracking her back in a series of satisfying pops. One hand rubs at the tender red splotches left by the uncomfortable metal clasps, the other lazily fumbles at the zippers and buttons at her waist, until she’s able to kick aside the old prison jumpsuit. Jack balls them up, chest straps in the middle of the bundle, and stuffs them behind the stack of crates. 

In just her underwear, she turns back to Shepard’s clothes, considering. Jack hates the idea of weakness, and accepting this gift is admitting that she was unable to deal with the uncomfort of her own clothes, that she couldn’t afford to get something new. So used to wearing her hurt and her pain like armor—her tattoos, even the ones born of brief and fleeting joy, are a testament to that—she feels...uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Shepard was right; the pants are a little big, oddly loose in some places (especially the waist), but still an improvement to the jumpsuit. She cinches the provided belt, the leftover material at the waist flowing up like the upward splash of a rock dropped in still water. The shirt, however, makes her pause again. Jack cradles it between her hands like something precious, as if she would know what to do with such a thing. The N7 is faded a bit, spiderweb cracks criss-crossing from repeated washings. 

Breathing deep, as if gathering courage, as if Subject Zero has ever  _ needed  _ to gather the only thing she’s ever had, Jack slips the shirt over her head. The fabric is soft against her skin, gentle, not the suffocating warmth of a hug but the light caress of safety, and it smells of detergent— _ actual _ detergent, not the near-scentless sanitation of the Normandy’s on-board services. Beneath the freshness, there’s the faint but sharp tang of a freshly popped heat sink, and something without name, that simply reminds her of Shepard, though she knows she could never find the words to describe it. 

She smooths down the front of the shirt, tucks the front into her pants, rolls the sleeves so they don’t hang so close to her elbows. 

She feels...different. Good. Her fingers shake with something she can’t, doesn’t want to, name, but she ignores it in favor of having real clothes, no matter how borrowed, how tied up in messy strings and emotion though they may be. 

Jack shoves her feet in her boots and her hands in her pockets, trudging up the stairs and out of her pit, heading toward the elevator, stomach rumbling in anticipation. The mess will be empty, and if she knows Shepard, the promised food will be in the reheater, waiting. 

** 

The next morning, when Shepard calls the crew to briefing room to discuss their next steps regarding the Omega-3 and plotting their course in gathering the last few members of their crew, Jack stands with her back to the wall and arms crossed over her chest. 

She doesn’t act as if anything has changed, because nothing has. 

She offers little to the meeting beyond her usual biting comment to the Cerberus Barbie, mostly opposing her ideas out of spite than any real interest, and Shepard breaks it up before the pissing match turns into a firework display of biotics; same shit, different day, really. 

The only difference is, when she dismisses everyone, Shepard catches Jack’s eye with a small, self-satisfied smile before striding out with the flow of the crew. 

Jacob is the only one ballsy enough to give a pointed glance at her clothes and raise a questioning brow. 

Jack merely winks, leaves him to his own conclusions.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me over on tumblr @grigori-girl!


End file.
